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Where does that come from? I don’tsaythings like that. I might not even mean them even if I were to say them, but I do with Mase.
I would very much like to show him my favourite blue panties.
And I pray he’s not playing some game with me.
“I’d like that a whole lot,” he says.
“You would?” This time my voice cracks like a twelve-year-old boy’s and Mase frowns.
“Yes, I would, so stop looking so suspicious and sad, like you don’t want to wake up from a dream. This isn’t a dream. This is real. This is really me and this is really you and I’d really like to see your underwear.” I’m happy when he shifts the bags to one hand to tangle his fingers with mine. His hand is warm and comforting and the way he strokes my palm with his thumb does interesting things to my insides.
I’m walking the Strip holding hands with Mase—I’m holding hands with a very nice man, not the playboy I’ve read so much about. I like this man. His touch grounds me. “Okay.” Happiness bubbles up, almost visible like the soap bubbles in the club.
“I hope you’ve noticed I’ve stopped calling you darlin’”
“Thank you.” Because of Mase’s easy way with women, thedarlin’sandsweetheartsaren’t really him—at least not the him that’s here with me now. “Anything else is fine.”
“Beautiful girl? Sexy woman?”
I can’t help the smile. “Fiona works, too.”
“Fee,” he decides. “Fee and Mase.”
“It doesn’t exactly flow,” I admit.
“Better than Fiona and Mason.”
“Nothing really goes with Fiona.”
“I like to think I go with Fiona.” And he squeezes my hand.
I may be shining as brightly as the red-not-ruby-ring on my finger.
I like me with Mase.
“What happened when you first got to the club?” he asks in a soft voice. “You looked like you were about to bolt.”
“I was,” I confess. “I have anxiety. Large crowds, lights, and sounds can be overwhelming.”
“But you handled it. You stayed. That took guts.”
“You helped,” I tell him. Normally, the overstimulation of a place like Bubbles should have caused more concern. “You planned this incredible night and I wanted to enjoy it. Your generosity is amazing. I wanted to have fun. With you.”
Mase’s expression makes me catch my breath. It’s so hopeful, so happy—and then it shutters closed.
“I wasn’t having fun with you because you’re Mase Stirling,” I say in a soft voice, taking a chance at what caused the change. “I was having fun despite it.” I reach up to turn the ugly cap backward, resisting the urge to run my fingers through his hair. The red ring sparkles in the glow of the streetlights. “If I tell you about my dad, you have to tell me something about yourself.”
Mase lifts his arm holding the bags and shrugs. “I’m an open book. The world knows everything about me.”
“I don’t think they do. I think you’re pretending too.”
“Is that so?”
“You’re sweet and kind and generous. You’re one of those cinnamon roll heroes I read about in books. I think you hide the soft squishy centre away because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”
“Has shopping turned into a therapy session?”
“My father died when I was sixteen,” I begin, more comfortable telling him things than any other therapist. “Heart attack, which is good in a way because he didn’t suffer, but I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. And I would have liked to.”
